The images shifted from a burning London to a room where Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov sat at a desk signing a paper, while Ribbentrop stood laughing as Stalin patted him on the back. Seeing it was a shock to Bernie. So often he had wondered why Stalin had made his pact with Hitler last year instead of joining the Allies, it had seemed crazy. The Communists said that only Stalin knew the concrete realities, you had to trust his judgement, but seeing him celebrating with Ribbentrop sent a shiver down Bernie’s spine.

‘Through its pact with Germany, Russia now not only occupies half of Poland but has a booming trade with Germany, receiving foreign exchange in return for its raw materials.’

There was a shot of a huge goods train being checked at a border, German soldiers in coal-scuttle helmets looking through manifests with greatcoated Russians. The film went on to laud German achievements in the occupied countries; Bernie’s attention drifted away as Vidkun Quisling welcomed a German opera company to Oslo.

At the quarry that afternoon, he had complained to Agustín of diarrhoea. It was a trial run to establish Bernie had a problem. ‘You’d better go behind the bushes then,’ Agustín said loudly. He shackled Bernie’s feet and led him round the side of the hill. From there the land sloped downhill, there was a vista of white rolling hills. It was a cloudy day; the light starting to fade.

Bernie looked at Agustín. His narrow face was set in its customary gloomy, worried expression but his eyes scanned the landscape with keen intelligence. ‘Go to that fold in the hills first,’ Agustín said quietly, pointing. ‘There’s a path, you can just make it out through the snow. I have been down there on my days off. There are some trees – hide among them until it’s dark. Then just keep going straight downhill, follow the shepherds’ tracks. Eventually you come to the road alongside the gorge.’

Bernie looked across the unbroken expanse of snow. ‘They’ll see my footprints.’

‘Perhaps the snow will have gone. But even if it hasn’t, if you go late in the afternoon they will not be able to start a proper search before dark. Your tracks will be harder to follow then. The guards will send someone down to the camp to raise the alarm but by the time Aranda has sent a search party out you should be almost in Cuenca.’

Bernie bit his lip. He had a vision of running downhill, the sound of a shot, crashing down to the earth. The end of everything. ‘Let’s see how the weather is on Saturday.’

Agustín shrugged. ‘You may only have this one chance.’ He looked at his watch, then glanced round nervously. ‘We should go back. Study the landscape, Piper. If we come back here a second time before the day someone may think it odd.’ He hitched his rifle over his shoulder, giving Bernie an uneasy, unhappy look. Bernie gave a wicked grin.

‘Perhaps they’ll think we are making a marriage, Agustín.’

Agustín frowned, indicating with a sharp gesture with his rifle for Bernie to walk back to the quarry.

THE FILM DRONED ON, showing German engineers modernizing Polish factories. A damp unwashed smell rose from the prisoners. Some had fallen asleep in the unaccustomed warmth, others sat staring sullenly ahead. It was always like this during propaganda films and church services: miserable, resentful sullenness. Could even Father Eduardo believe those services had any value? They were like the films, just another type of revenge, punishment. Bernie glanced at Pablo, sitting further along the row. Since the crucifixion he had been withdrawn, hollow-eyed, his arms gave him much pain. Sometimes he had the look of one who had given up – Vicente had had an expression like that towards the end. Establo treated Pablo with surprising kindliness. His strength was failing and he got Pablo to help him with things; Bernie suspected to give Pablo something to do, stop him sinking into depression.

Father Eduardo, too, had been affected by the crucifixion. Bernie had seen him watching Pablo as he shuffled uncomfortably across the snowy yard. The priest seemed withdrawn, preoccupied, his face full of pain as his eyes followed Pablo. Bernie avoided Father Eduardo now, he still felt ashamed of his part in tormenting him. But the previous day the priest had come up to him in the yard after roll-call.

‘How is Pablo Jimenez?’ he asked. ‘He is in your hut.’

‘Not good.’

The priest looked Bernie in the face. ‘I am sorry for it.’

‘You should tell him.’

‘I did. Or I tried to, he ignored me. I wanted you to know too.’ Father Eduardo shuffled away, his head sunk between his shoulders like an old man’s.

There was a whirr and a click and the screen went black. A guard lit the oil lamps and Aranda stepped in front of them. He folded his hands behind his back, smiling. He enjoys our humiliation, Bernie thought.

‘Well, gentlemen, did the film impress you?’ he asked. ‘It showed what shivering, frightened cowards the Communists are. They would rather sign a treaty with their enemy Germany than fight. They are not real fighting men, any more than the skulking British.’ He waved the swagger stick. ‘Come on, let me hear what you think, who has something to say?’

Responding to these verbal challenges was a dangerous game. Aranda could label a reply that displeased him as insolence and punish the man who made it. Next to Pablo, though, Establo dragged himself painfully to his feet with the aid of his stick. His face was yellow and jaundiced now, making a terrible contrast with the red streaks of his scabies. But Establo would never give up.

‘Comrade Stalin is wiser than you think, señor comandante.’ His voice was a wheeze; he had to pause for breath. ‘He waits. For the imperialist powers to wear themselves out with their war. Then, when the British Empire and Germany have fought each other into the ground, the workers of both countries will rise, and the Soviet Union will help them.’

Aranda was delighted. He smiled at Establo’s ravaged face. ‘But Britain stands on the verge of defeat, while Germany is mightier than ever. There will be no fighting to a standstill, just a German victory.’ He waved his stick at Bernie. ‘What does our English Communist think?’

Everything depended on keeping out of trouble now. Bernie stood up. ‘I don’t know, comandante.’

‘You saw from the film that Britain will not come out and give Germany a clean fight. Do you not hope they will fight, so that Britain and Germany’s ruling classes can destroy each other as your comrade said?’

Establo stared round at him challengingly. Bernie said nothing. Aranda smiled. Then, to Bernie’s relief he indicated he should sit down again.

‘The British know they will be defeated, that is why they stay at home. But next spring, Chancellor Hitler will invade and then all will be over.’ He smiled round at the prisoners. ‘Then, who knows, he may turn his attention to Russia.’

AFTERWARDS in the hut, Bernie was lying on his bunk, thinking. Thick snow on the ground for weeks now, surely it couldn’t go on for much longer. But only five days left. He heard the tap of a stick and looked up. Establo couldn’t walk unaided now and Pablo was supporting his other arm. He stood at the foot of his pallet and contemplated Bernie, his eyes as alive and intense as ever in the candlelight, the only part of him that wasn’t shrinking, being eaten away.

‘You did not have much to say to the comandante tonight, Piper.’

‘There is no point in arguing with madmen.’

‘Britain still fights on the sea. It remains a formidable foe to Germany.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Because then Britain and Germany can so weaken each other that the workers feel safe to rise, no? You saw how Comrade Stalin fooled the Germans into thinking they are his friends.’

‘If he’d joined Britain and France last year, perhaps Germany might have been beaten.’